Of Sugar, Pearls and Heels

I turned away reluctantly, smiled happily and hugged him in thanks, brushed a small smudge of powder from his lapel with my fingertips.

He returned from the hall closet with a coat. No, that's not it, not at all. He returned from the hall closet with a Coat. It was the darkest, richest fur I'd ever seen. I reached out with one finger, touched it hesitantly. It felt like I could keep pushing further and further into it, deeper and deeper, until my entire arm had vanished shoulder-deep into whatever magic lay on the other side.

"What is it?" I asked, almost awed.

"Sable."

I tried to make a little joke. "Was this your grandmother's, too?"

"No." His expression in the mirror in front of me was almost shy. "No."

I waited for more; when it didn't come, I tried to fill the silence.

"It's beautiful, Greg. Thank you."

Without speaking, he draped it over my shoulders, stepped back. The fur was beyond black in colour, like the other side of darkness, and it fell below my knees. I felt it brush lightly against my skin as it settled into place, felt it pull over my nipples, felt them harden.

The woman in the mirror wasn't me anymore.

Despite the deal she'd agreed to, despite having been what her grandmother would have scorned as a 'kept woman' for three years, Leah Holmes was essentially shy, uncertain. The image in front of me seemed a stranger, a woman both aware of and intensely confident in the power of her personal femininity.

I thought of myself as... attractive, maybe pretty on a good day. The woman in the mirror on the other hand was alluring, captivating, compelling, utterly desirable.

I smiled again in spite of myself, felt my heart stop for a second at how flawless I appeared.

My hands felt inside for the sleeves, found them, shrugged to adjust the coat on my shoulders. I didn't fasten it, but left a handbreadth gap exposing my throat, the flow of pearls between the swell of my breasts, my perfectly-smooth sex, long legs and slim ankles above barely-there shoes. I tried to see myself through somebody else's eyes and found myself unaccountably excited at that, a subtle tug and tautness in my breasts, a slight tremor in my thighs, the slightest swelling of labia.

This was womanhood!   I thought. Never had I been so proud, so convinced of my own strength, of the power and influence my sex brought with it.

I turned to Greg, kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, dear. I'm sorry I was so hesitant..."

"It's OK. I'm very glad you agreed, Leah." His hand caressed my cheek and I leaned into it.

"So am I." I lifted my head and looked back to the mirror. "So am I."

+

"I forgot to ask," I said as the limo door closed behind us. "Where are we actually going?"

"The Civic Art Gallery."

"But... how?" In my experience, they wouldn't let you bring so much as a package of mints into the gallery.

"Most places are available to rent, for the right money. And there's an Impressionist show you might enjoy afterwards."

"Oh!" I'd read of that, remembered thinking it would be nice to see. "But dinner?"

"Relax, Leah. Having a party there is not all that unusual. They have a kitchen, dining room, a bar and everything else."

"Really?" It was yet one more surprise in a thoroughly surprising day.

I bent my head to one side, rubbed my nose in the soft fur, giggled slightly. The limo was solid as a concrete pier, yet I could feel the silk lining shift across my shoulders, knees and breasts each time it turned a corner. I wasn't quite aroused, but I was very definitely aware.  I smiled inwardly, turned to look at him, saw those green eyes looking back.

His hand caught mine, squeezed gently.

"How're you doing, Leah?"

"Good."

The reply had been automatic. I thought about it, realized that I truly was. Yes, 'boundaries', but if there was one thing I'd learned, it was that I could trust this man. Whatever might happen, I could be utterly confident that he'd be by my side, would take care of me, protect me and defend both me and my name.

I leaned over, put my head on his shoulder. I wanted to hug him, but I couldn't get my arm between him and the car seat, so I just squeezed his arm.

"Really good," I said softly and gloried in the love in his laugh.

We turned onto the Avenue, a minute from the gallery. Sure enough, the famous entrance-way with its flanking rose bushes was blazing with light, even at this hour. I watched as another limo pulled away in front of us, then the chauffer was opening our door and the rose-scented evening air was filling my nostrils. I waited where I was until Greg had got out of the car, turned and held out his hand to help me.

The coat opened slightly as I exited, exposing a surprising amount of leg. I don't think the driver saw it, but I know Greg did. His grin broadened and he extended his arm. I slid mine through, clung to his elbow.

The doors opened before us and I entered like a queen into Camelot, lights and people talking and eyes following me as I walked down the hall, through a door I'd never seen open before and my eyes were filled with light and crystal chandeliers and dozens of couples, men in tuxedoes and utterly lovely women all dressed like me.

Less the coat.

I felt both challenged and relieved. It was clear that I would not be the only bare woman, let alone the only woman at all and that was a comfort of sorts. On the other hand, there were some very, very pretty girls present. Men compete by doing things; women can compete by just being. I found this many beautiful women a bit intimidating.

To make it worse, every head in the room turned at the same time, with every eye looking at me, appraising, evaluating, wondering what the sable concealed.

Greg guided me to one side. A small alcove hid a coat-check, where a thoroughly bored-looking woman was sitting. There wasn't room for me to enter, but she on the other hand could not see into the room.

"Turn around," Greg whispered to me.

I turned to face the other guests, realized it was time, moved my hands to the fastenings. The sable drifted off my shoulders, down my arms and Greg had caught it, was passing it to the coat-check and dozens of eyes were running over my body, unapologetically inspecting, comparing, admiring and, yes, rating.

I put my shoulders back, raised my chin a little, let my own eyes meet theirs. Despite the other beauties there, I realized I had little reason for concern. Such little of that as I might have retained evaporated under the clearly-approving glances from the crowd.

Greg checked our coats and his phone — phones were forbidden inside, he'd said — then took my arm again and led me through the crowded room, dressed now in but the mask, his pearls and the almost invisible heels. I could feel the eyes on me, like fingers in the darkness, and took the opportunity to openly stare back, admire the handsomeness of dozens of formally-clothed gentlemen and their exquisitely lovely, exquisitely bare ladies.

Ages varied, but there were no unattractive men, no grossly obese ones, no unkempt ones. Their black and white mass formed a solid masculine presence and I found that I could accept that, even take comfort from it.

Some of the women had indeed gone formal with their hair and Greg had been right; it looked a bit silly, a step too far, a gilding of the lily. Some were draped with acres of pearls and that looked no better to my eyes, for it diverted attention away from their wearers rather than amplifying their loveliness.

A few of the women, generally the very young ones, appeared to be uncertain, nervous. Others, in carefully-selected languorous poses, had bold eyes that dueled with passers-by of both sexes.

Despite the semi-concealment of the domino masks, I thought I recognized a number of the men present. Some I'd seen in the news, one was himself a noted news announcer, another was a rather famous activist and there were at least two well-known public figures I was pretty sure wouldn't mention this evening in their campaign speeches. I was clearly at an A-List event.

Greg found our table and introduced me to the men already there, first names only, Turner and Ham. They in turn introduced the women, Jesse and Mia. The girls were very pretty and I could see Greg's eyes linger over their breasts for a moment. I bristled inwardly for an instant before laughing at myself; if there was one place a girl couldn't afford to be upset by stray glances, it had to be the Ball.

Mia was a few years older than Jesse and I. Deliciously curvy, she was covered in freckles; her red hair was cut in a pageboy. Her mask was modest; she wore a single strand necklace and a matching bracelet and looked enormously prettier than the ones around us who had tried too hard.

Jesse was taller, a brunette, slender but very striking. She wore her hair even simpler than me; lacking my braids, it simply fell down her back, almost to her waist. The pearls she wore, on the other hand, were startling -- a tight-fit, four-strand choker about her throat with matching three-strand bracelets and, I noticed as I sat down, anklets. I mentally changed the pearls to black leather and got an insight into her escort. She herself seemed perfectly normal, perfectly unperturbed, as if unaware or uncaring of the possible perception. I shrugged inwardly; they were, after all, only pearls. Maybe I was mistaken. It was in any case none of my business.

Greg went to the next room, returned with drinks - 'champagne cocktails', he called them. The champagne flutes were garnished with maraschino cherries and orange slices. I stared delightedly at the fountain of bubbles erupting from a half-dissolved sugar cube lying at the bottom of my glass.

I sipped it, found it delicious and said so.

"Just be careful," he said softly. "There's more to that than just bubbly."

"Oh. Well, it's still good."

Conversation around the table was much like that at any normal party - who did what, vacations, weather, home towns. We too examined those entering the ball, smiled amongst ourselves at the timid eyes of some new arrivals, mentally compared breasts and legs and pearls. When the men inevitably shifted their conversation to sports and business, I caught the eyes of the two girls.

"I think I'm going to powder my nose," I announced. Rising, I asked Greg if he knew where the Ladies' Room was. He stood up, looked around and pointed. He caught a quick kiss as a reward and the three of us moved towards it through a cordon of watching eyes.

Once we'd finished in the stalls, we did what women do, checked our makeup and took the opportunity for an androgen-absent chat. It's a time where some pretenses can be dropped. Thinking on it now, of course, there weren't a lot of those left that night, for what can be more pretentious than clothing in the hands of the proud? Remove clothing from the equation and everyone is left to be seen as they really are.

Jesse was Turner's girlfriend and it was her first time at the Simply Charity Ball. She smiled slightly, shivered a little. "It's not what I thought it would be," she admitted.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Mia asked, touching up her lipstick.

The girl thought a moment, looked at herself in the mirror and smiled a little more broadly.

"Yes. Yes, I think so." She paused. "I'm bare a great deal, but it's always at home, by ourselves. I wasn't sure about being with a lot of other people. But they're not creepy and that makes it easier." Her hand settled on the wide bracelet on one wrist, turned it slightly. She nodded again. "Yes."

In turn, I said I was Greg's girlfriend; the term came easily enough after three years. I was attempting to get accepted into a Master's program in linguistics and it was my first time, too.

When we looked at Mia, almost shyly, she held up her left hand. I hadn't noticed the silver ring mounting, yes, a pearl.

"I was his... girlfriend for four years." I noticed the momentary hesitation, smiled to myself. We get around, we sugar-babies.   "We got married last year."

She giggled at a memory.

"He did the big kneeling thing, holding out a jeweler's box with a diamond ring. But when I said Yes, he reached into his pocket and handed me a second box, too."

She wiggled her left hand, giggled again. "It's nothing but pearls here, right? So, he gave me two wedding rings, one for normal wear and one for the Ball."

"You must enjoy this, Mia."

"Oh, yes! I think it's amazing, empowering even." She looked around to see if anyone might be listening and her grin spread ear to ear. "We own  the men tonight. They're getting stoked like nothing else, nowhere else. And they know it and they know we know it. All of the boys want us, all of us, separately and collectively. We're like totally vulnerable and yet completely powerful at the same time."

Her giggle turned into a chuckle, grew deeper, irresistible. The three of us were still laughing when we exited the Ladies.

Mia had been right, I realized as we walked. We were — I was — at the absolute centre of attention for dozens of men. They were everywhere, yet, paradoxically, one barely noticed them as individuals. Multiples of stark black and white, they seemed to fuse into one large masculine entity - one entirely focused on us, it was true, but it was we women who retained our individuality.

Tall or short, hair straight or curly, red, brown or golden, slim or curvaceous, large breasts or small, nipples pale pink or chocolate brown, sex shaven, shaped, trimmed or natural, skin pale, tanned or naturally dark, adorned in that costume each of us carries with us from birth, it was we women who had the power that night, we women who controlled the evening and it was the men who were controlled.

Conversation dropped as we walked through the room; I could feel hundreds of eyes on me as we walked back to our table, eyes appraising — enjoying — me as I moved. I smiled, sensing the mastery those looks gave me.

The men at our table rose as we approached. I claimed a kiss of welcome from Greg as he helped me with my chair.

The noise level in the room rose and fell almost like a musical theme throughout the evening, mezzo-forte to pianissimo, conversation falling away each time a bare, pearl-clad figure rose from her table. Those nearby would stop talking to watch, a circle of awareness expanding until a hundred pairs of eyes were following the lovely figure moving across the room; the conversation restarting only when she had disappeared through a door or returned to her chair.

Those voices fell to a hush for me whenever I moved, those eyes followed me, too. I had initially worried about feeling defenceless in my nakedness, had been almost terrified, truth be told. Yet those fears had fallen away, been replaced by calm certainty of complete safety. Yes, I was openly watched, my nudity enjoyed, but not one man leered or made the slightest remark, let alone reached towards me. I was suddenly certain that, if some man stepped over the line, I would have not only Greg to defend me, but an instant dozen of devoted, very serious male guardians.

At the same time, the evening was permeated with sexuality. The constant presence of so many striking women in their natural glory could not fail to have a profound effect on all concerned. The eyes of the men were laser-focused, their colour high and I noticed more than one having to surreptitiously adjust his trousers. Polite and constrained though they were, their desire was clearly rising with each minute; we women could hardly not be aware of that and felt our own bodies react in return.

I saw no servants, servers or gallery staff that evening. No doubt the organizers had been very firm on that point. The men in their tuxedos fetched drinks from a bar in another room. When it was time to eat, the men led our table into a third room where more tables and a buffet had been laid out. We served ourselves, found more champagne waiting on ice at each dining table. The food was excellent and I was happy to find vegetarian options.

Returning us to our ballroom table, the boys had gone to fetch after-dinner drinks, leaving the three of us alone for a minute.

"Something has been puzzling me," Jesse said. "It's the whole charity thing."

"You don't know?" Mia exclaimed. "It's no great secret, I suppose, but it's not talked about much. This," and here she pointed a finger around the room, "is $10,000 a plate."

My jaw dropped and I could see Jesse was as surprised. I knew Greg was wealthy — he referred to it as 'comfortable' — but even so, that was hardly small change. I looked around the crowded room, guess-counted heads.

"That's a lot of money for charity," I said. "I don't think I've ever heard it being mentioned on the news."

"You wouldn't have," she smiled. "It started in the Great Depression, a time of real poverty for many. A few of those who'd made the right decisions and were still solvent decided that, in times of extraordinary misery, an, um, extraordinary fund-raising method might be useful.

"It worked and it's still going. The proceeds are donated quietly to local groups -- boys' and girls' clubs, rehab clinics, homeless shelters and the like. The boys aren't looking for praise and are in any case a bit publicity-shy."

She grinned and we had to join her. No, this wouldn't be something you told your publicist or P.R. department to splash.

The men found the three of us thoughtful on their return. Fortunately, they had brought drinks and there were smiles and soft looks.

A curtain across the end of the ballroom apparently concealed a small dance band, for there had been light music all evening. With the coffee and liqueurs the men had brought us, we watched from our table as first one, then several, then half a dozen couples rose and moved to a dance floor by the curtain. For the first time, men and women touched, but even then, no more so than had all been clothed.

Greg smiled at me, placed his hand on mine. He knew I loved to dance, had bought us ballroom dancing lessons for each of my birthdays and had made the time to keep up with me. We started with a waltz; the feeling of my hand in Greg's, his hand on my bare waist, still lingers in my dreams.

High heels aren't ideal for dancing, but to this day, I can think of nothing more beautiful than that fairy-tale dance floor swirling with tuxedo-clad masculinity and enchanting, pearl-adorned loveliness.

The music changed; we stayed, danced, went back to our table, returned, danced, sat again to watch the spectacle.

The ballroom was properly warm, but I found the leather of my chair seat wonderfully cool on my bum each time we sat down. I was excited by the magic of the event, dozens of sexually-charged individuals, all responding to the costumes gracing the women courtesy of a generous and artistic Mother Nature. I won't use the word 'lust' for the way I felt, for it was not such. There was no demanding, driving urgency to it, yet the sexual sizzle was as palpable as the sleek bums and bellies and bosoms filling the room.

Naked women and formally-clothed men were a total contrast, very unlike anything in my experience, even Héliopolis. Their clothes served as emphasis to our lack; our nudity accentuated our unavailability to them. I found it intoxicating, a constant, growing tension between desire and denial.

We danced, nibbled, sipped bubbly, talked, watched beautiful women grace our evening, each of us aware of our own slowly-building desire, landslide-relentless, sunrise-inevitable.

Mia and Ham returned from the dance floor, said goodnight and departed. I watched that firm, freckled bottom as she made her way to the door, pausing for Ham to collect her coat -- a lovely fox, I think. She smiled, blew me a kiss, then, her husband's arm firmly around her waist, turned and left.